


pride precedes the fall

by eunoia (RionaHGoch)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Sansa Stark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Joffrey Baratheon is a Little Shit, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Journalism, Married Couple, Minor Character Death, Modern Westeros, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jon Snow, POV Sansa Stark, R Plus L Equals J, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25810531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RionaHGoch/pseuds/eunoia
Summary: Sansa Stark had everything: the masses of adoring fans, the handsome successful husband, the dream job, the looks of a goddess, the power to change the world.That was what the world believed in until a murder investigation brings to light all the lies around her.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 50





	1. timeless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was rewatching this kdrama, Misty by JTBC and I started to think I really want a version of ASOIAF based on the plot. The premise is kinda the same, though there are some major differences. Sansa is a thirty-two years old news anchor married to the firstborn son of a peerage family, the Targaryens. Jaehaerys "Jon" Targaryen is the son of Rhaegar's first marriage to Lyanna Snow. He was part of the King's Counsel, which kind like a prosecutor before he left to do mostly pro bono work. Sansa is a commoner who struggled to pull through university and begun as a reporter very young, she is beloved and well-respected in the field, ambitious to a fault. Their marriage of seven years is in shambles, and she has the chance to get the position she always dreamt of. But in order to do that she needs to get an exclusive with an upcoming politician. All her life is brought to question when said politician is found dead.

**January 16th, 2019 | King’s Landing, Westeros**

Sansa Stark had everything: the masses of adoring fans, the handsome successful husband, the dream job, the looks of a goddess, the power to change the world.

 _If only_ everything _could make someone happy._

As it was, the power she had dreamt of so long, turned out to be just a lie - a smokescreen to hide the fact that only some type of people could really get to the high places of the ruling world, and she wasn’t one of them. Everything natural in her looks begun to fade away as soon as she left her twenties, and everything else was a construct that demanded the skills of many designers and artists. The dream job was ephemeral as ever, and if she faltered for one second, one of those vultures that circled around would snatch the seat in front of the cameras in a blink of eyes. Her marriage was a facade just like every other thing in her life, the parody of a relationship that was nothing but disappointment. And the masses of fans would quickly turn against her if she as much as allowed them to think of that possibility. 

When Sansa was little, she would tell anyone who was willing to listen that she was going to marry the prince and become a princess. There was a recording somewhere in her childhood home attic of her on her sixth birthday, wearing a crown and missing her front tooth, declaring that she was going to end sadness. When her brother, Robb, inquired how she was going to that, she had decided that she was going to make everyone love her. It would take her ten years more to understand that a prince would never marry her and that if she truly wished to make the world just a bit fairer, then she would have to hold the people responsible for it in check. 

It would take her another ten years to understand that she could have anything in life (her wildest dreams) as long as she was ready to sacrifice everything else for it. And sacrifice she did, but there she was: the news anchor of WBC’s News at Six, a year short of becoming the youngest newsreader to present the News at Ten. 

“So, you heard then.” The voice of Myranda Royce stirred her away from her musings, and Sansa stared into her cup of smoked tea as if it held all the answers. “Monford Velaryon is retiring.” It was a kind way to name what was being done to Velaryon, but Sansa wouldn’t shed many tears over it. Velaryon had only been able to get the position thanks to the joint effort of good old cronyism and the ever-present rules of patriarchy. “It’s going to be mostly between you, Edric and Margaery.” 

Sansa knew it was not an easy thing for Myranda to say. There was a time that the woman would have fought tooth and nail against Sansa for the position. Those pictures of Harrold Hardyng balls deep into her had destroyed her career a few years ago. Women didn’t come back from being the mistress of the heir to the biggest manufacturing conglomerate of Westeros, even more, when they didn’t have enough lineage to back up their position. A few years ago, when the whole affair had come to light, the fall had been hard for her senior: Myranda had been blacklisted in the whole industry, and the only jobs she could get right now were as a webmaster or an anonymous columnist. She was still the best person to go for gossip, or even a bit more.

“The Director will support me.” Sansa pointed out. “He trusts me to deliver.” 

It was an unspoken agreement between everyone employed by WBC that meetings such as those were held in the Ashford Tea Room – the _Art Nouveau_ establishment just across the street from the headquarters, which had received patronage from generations of journalists, as the cafeteria inside the headquarters was notoriously bad. At least three-quarters of the current customers were in the business, but the owner had a great sense of how to keep his patrons distant enough in order to keep conversations private.

“Yes, Baelish thinks the world of you.” Myranda agreed. “Tywin Lannister hates your guts, though, and he is the Chairman.”

“He doesn’t have a say over what goes on in the newsroom.” 

“It’d be a stretch even to say he doesn’t have a say over what you guys cover – we know for a fact that media corruption is alive and kicking, darling. But he definitely has a say over who is assigned to which job, let’s not be fooled.” It was true: Myranda was the living proof of it, as the decision of kicking her out of the NewsWatch had been his. 

“How long do I have?”

Myranda finished her cup of oolong in one as a pretty, youthful waitress brought them the bill. The older woman pondered over the question for some time. “Probably until the end of February. Monfrond will want to WPA Awards, and Baelish will wait for a new season to change anchors.”

Sansa paid the full bill, it was the least she could do for Myranda. 

“That’s a nice watch. Did Jaehaerys get you for Christmas?” It was a beautiful watch indeed, gold lined with diamonds, though not a new one. Jon had gifted it to her on their first anniversary, many years ago. It was only recently she given in and begun to wear it again. But that was hard to explain to Myranda, who didn’t believe in the institution of marriage, therefore she only nodded. 

“I have to go if I want to catch Petyr alone before the editorial meeting,” Sansa said instead. “Thank you for breakfast.”

* * *

The headquarters of the Westerosi Broadcasting Company was an imposing example of _Art Deco_. Sansa could still remember the first time she had walked inside the skyscraper, twelve years ago, an Oldtown student jumping in excitement with her internship in the most prestigious broadcaster in the world. That summer had been the dream, and two years after that she was welcomed in the foyer once again, to a new reality in which she truly belonged among their ranks. Ten years after that, the marble walls and the glass statues had lost some of its glory, nonetheless, the power behind those steps still fascinated her. 

The News section of the company overtook floors twenty-four to twenty-eight, and the conference rooms could mostly be found on the twenty-seventh floor, the same one as the director’s office. Petyr Baelish, the newsroom director, was a middle-aged man who dressed as daringly as he did his news. Sansa owed a lot to him - when she was a scholarship student trying to pay her bills by the end of the month, he had been the one to offer her the chance of a lifetime in the form of an internship; when she was a rookie reporter, clueless but eager, he had been the one to mentor her in the business; when she started out as anchor, and the expected threats came by mail, he had been the one to deal with them. He was harmless as a viper, still, she trusted him to act on his best interests (which were the best interests of the newsroom, and usually, her own). 

“Sansa, sweetling.” He greeted her when she barged into his office. “You look even more beautiful this day. I like the new suit.” 

Petyr knew her wardrobe and habits better than herself - there was a time that his attention to her had bothered her, but that was before she understood nothing would ever come out of it: the man was very careful. With time she grew to appreciate his attention and even allowed him to introduce her to some of the finest aspects of fashion. Her teal velvet pantsuit was the sort of bold choice for an outfit that the man would appreciate - she had been very aware of that when she had purchased it in Ralph Lauren the day before when she first heard the news about Velaryon. In the same way, she had purposely paired with her burgundy stilettos and a mauve turtleneck. 

“Thank you, Petyr.” She answered. Aside from the foyer, the rest of the building had its style renovated in the advent of the new millennium, and once again three years before. The result of this was that most of the interior was an opulence of light and glass, and yet it still paid homage to the ancient roots of the company, with panels of marble, and reinterpreted geometrical shapes. Petyr’s office was a good example of that. She sat down on the very Scandinavian couch in front of his desk at the same moment as he stood up. “I want News at Ten.”

“Edric Storm is going to have it.” Petyr declared.

“Not Margaery Tyrell?” As much as she loathed to admit, if she had to be passed by someone, she would prefer for that person to be Tyrell. At least the woman had the dictation, and the potential to become good. Edric Storm was a pretty man that relied mostly on his good lucks and ass-kissing to rise up in the world. 

“Margaery is going to do World News, soon.”

“Since when is Merryweather leaving? And I cannot believe you are going to go with another man in News at Ten. Isn’t that one of the reasons for his retirement?”

“Taena isn’t leaving, she is being transferred. And you know that I would never have chosen Storm myself, sweetling, but he has the seniority and the chairman has spoken.”

“I have the viewers. When I took up News at Six I made it my life. Every other programme has had its audience dropped with the rise of the internet in the last years, but my viewers remain steadfast. If I take News at Ten, I can make it great.” 

“That was the reason Tywin used to keep you where you are. Who knows what will happen if you move from where you are winning?” Petyr walked up to her, offering his hand up with some sort of tenderness. “Of course, I don’t agree with it, sweetling. I know what will happen, you will bring the best ratings we ever had.” 

Sansa wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t. It was useless, and the sort of thing that wouldn’t bear fruit. She didn’t need to convince Baelish, she knew he would do the best for the newsroom, always. She only had to become the best option. “This is not definitive.” She concluded, remembering Myranda’s words. “You won’t make the decision before February.” 

“That’s true. This would give you a month to come up with something, sweetling.”

“What’s gonna take?” She wondered as they walked away from his office. 

“Something big.” 

He left her alone soon after that, apparently forgetting something inside his office. Nevertheless, he instructed her to go ahead of him, and Sansa made her way to the conference room. Most of their people were already there: newsroom meetings such as these happened every morning when they would pick the stories that would be covered that day and the angles. Everyone took part in those: reporters, the director, anchors, team leaders, the producer, and editors. Together, they were nearly twenty people, packed together in their room. 

As soon as Sansa walked in, the conversation reached her ears. She easily identified who they were speaking about, even before they spoke any names. The past three days, it was all people around her could speak of since the keynote speech on Rhoyne’s Hall. 

_“All the steps for candidacy.”_

_“He could really win, people like him.”_

_“People only like him because he isn’t a politician, the second he becomes one will be the second in which people will begin to mistrust him.”_

_“Do you think that’s why he is avoiding the press?”_

Sansa Stark had also some curiosity over the matter, if only because she knew it was newsworthy. The political scene of Westeros was so saturated by all sorts of politicians and agendas that a fresh face with potential was as exciting as a major catastrophe or a scandal, even if it didn’t lead to anything. Soon, Petyr had arrived in the room and they sat down, discussing in the next minutes the newcast of the day. It would be an average airing, despite her efforts to keep it interesting but informative, but Sansa was at least satisfied that she would get more views in her time slot than any other channel. Meetings such as those usually lasted between thirty to forty-five minutes, therefore Sansa was pleasantly surprised when Petyr announced that they had five more minutes to brainstorm some foreseeable events. As soon as he declared that, an idea bloomed inside her mind. 

“Joffrey Baratheon,” Sansa spoke. 

“Yes, we must be ready when he announces his candidacy, we all know that.” Addam Mardbrand, a reporter, spoke up. 

“An interview with Joffrey Baratheon, on News at Ten.” Sansa stared at Petyr, who had looked up from the files he carried with him, his eyes boring into hers. “I can do it.” 

“Nobody has been able to get hold of him.” Margaery Tyrell pointed out, to which Edric Storm added, defensively: “Do you have a source?”

Sansa didn’t dignify the answer. There was only one person in the entire room she answered to, and he was neither of those incompetent reporters. His gray-green eyes laughed with excitement, though his lips remained impassive, the shadow of a tug in them a mirage only she could see. “Well, do you have a source?”

“Would I say something like this if I didn’t have one?”

Petyr smiled, pleased with her own shrewdness. “Very well, an exclusive: Sansa Stark and Joffrey Baratheon. Let’s air that by the end of February.” 

* * *

**March 20th, 2019 | King’s Landing, Westeros**

“Ms. Stark.” 

The man was very tall, with pale blue eyes. In his youth, he must have been incredibly handsome, for there were certain traces of it left behind in his lined face, he had a lot of hair for a male of his age, even if it was all silver-white. Detective Selmy he had introduced himself as.

“Ms. Stark, please answer the question.” 

Sansa woke up from her reverie, staring down at the photograph the man had slid in her direction. A gorgeous man stared into her eyes, and she shivered. Golden-blonde curls and menacing green eyes, the man could have been a model, but he was only a politician. “It’s Mrs., actually.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mrs. Sansa Minisa Targaryen. I use my maiden name in the news, but I changed it seven years ago when I got married.” 

Detective Selmy sighed, adopting a less authoritative voice to address her. “Mrs. Targaryen, do you know this man?” He repeated gently, pointing once again to the photograph.

“It’s Joffrey Baratheon. He is dead, I was called in a witness to his last days.” Sansa spoke, wishing to regain some composure, for certain, the man appeared her to be of a weak mind. 

“What’s your relationship with him?” 

“I interviewed him live thrice, for WBC.” She spoke carefully.

Detective Selmy watched her for a few moments. Sansa was unnerved by his stare, which seemed to go from suspicious to gentle and back again to suspicious as if he couldn’t decide how to conduct this interview. That was annoying. As someone who had conducted her fair share of interviews, she knew how important it was to have a clear objective in whatever one spoke, and how to avoid misleading the subject. Apparently, Selmy didn’t care for that, because when he took another photograph of his folder and showed it to her, all that Sansa could hear was confusion. 

“Upon searching his current apartment, where he was found dead, we found a wristwatch on his nightstand, do you recognize it?” Sansa stared at the image, not really understanding how her life had come to this. “Perhaps another picture? It’s a _Cartier_ watch, gold, and diamonds. I haven’t had the time to investigate further but as I understand, it a very expensive piece. There’s is an engraving in the back, can you make it out?”

Sansa didn’t even need to look at the picture to read what was written in the back of the jewelry. She had known it for six years, and the words in it had tortured her every day since they became acquainted. 

_My Sansa,_

_I love you more with every passing second._

_Your Jon_


	2. happiness

The first time Jaehaerys Targaryen laid eyes upon Sansa Stark, she didn’t wear designer brands. Back then, Sansa wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing things such as pantsuits or sheath dresses. She shopped in fast-fashion retailers, always looking for things like jeans, blouses, cardigans, running around for a cover story in loafers and slippers. She had worn her hair long and tied, for she had yet to learn to iron her curls. Feminine, but also completely lacking in the style department. 

Sansa Stark had asked all the right questions, but she lacked the power to demand the answers. Young and idealist, but also bold and determined. Jon was fascinated by her tenacity - he, someone who had grown used to that kind of life, to answer authority and to respect his elders, couldn’t believe the audacity of someone that didn’t hesitate to interrupt the attorney general to inquire after the proceedings. 

Jon himself had only graduated from law school the year before joining the ranks of the crown prosecution service as an crown advocate. She had been an annoying girl, but also a beautiful creature, tenacious and clever on her own right. He had asked her out the same day he had watched her fall down the stairs, trying to keep up with the flock of journalists and prosecutors that followed the solicitor general around. 

Frustrated, Sansa Stark sat down on the steps of the Ministry of Justice, her knees bleeding and her feet bare. She had been wearing a bun, but it was mostly wrecked by the fall, russet curls against pale skin. A lovely picture, graceful despite her young years. He had barely contained a smirk while he climbed up the steps to fetch the shoes, before offering those to her. 

“They won’t answer you.” He said, because it was a dangerous thing for a girl like her to continue to try to get any answers. Her injured knees were a testament to that.

“I know. But they will remember my name. And they will remember that Sansa Stark doesn’t write what she is told to write.” She explained, a chuckle escaping her lips as she put on her shoes. “That’s enough for now.”

“For now.” He repeated with some curiosity. What would be her plans next? That was a question Jon remembered living in his mind for the first years of their relationship. It took him three years to stop asking it, to understand he wouldn’t get the answers, for they wouldn’t include him.

“Yes. I don’t intend to go on following people around for a quote much longer. I’ll end up dead before I manage it.” She declared, gesturing to her knees then. Jon had convinced her to go into his office after that, the promise of iodine and band-aids lingering on his lips. 

They had dated for nine months before he asked her to marry him. Sansa had laughed then, not in the emotional giggling girls might when someone proposes then, but in disbelief. 

“I absolutely cannot marry you, Jon.” She had told him. “I’m too selfish for you.”

Jon should have believed her. He should have agreed, said it was a foolish idea and let it die. They would have dated for awhile, had a nice relationship in which she would take his breath away and he would watch in awe as he died slowly of enchantment, until the day they broke apart. They would go on their own ways, until there was no longer a _they_ , just a _he_ and a _she_. He would have continued as a prosecutor, until one day he became a politician or retired to enjoy his family fortune, as his father would wish him to do. He would have married a woman, not as gorgeous as Sansa, not as wonderful, and they would have had children. She would have climbed up the ranks of the broadcasting industry, probably slower, maybe she would have become an International correspondent in Essos, as it had been proposed some years ago. Most probably she would still be a reporter. 

But Jon didn’t believe Sansa. He had told her he didn’t care she couldn’t love him. Jon had insisted that he loved her enough for both of them. He had told her she could use his connections, that she could use his Targaryen lineage to add prestige to her career. He had worked hard to convince that marriage was a possibility for her. A profitable decision.

They married in November of 2011. Sansa had used him, and Jon had been happy to be used. Even after all those years, Jon still knew he would never ask for divorce. If their marriage was to be broken, then the decision would have to come from Sansa. Maybe it would happen one day, when she no longer had any use for him. 

His refusal of divorce didn’t mean he was happy, though. Jon had thought he could make his wife love him, as long he had time. But people cannot really make others love them. And maybe happiness was overrated in the end. Jon had goals, and they brought him satisfaction. His life had purpose, and how many people could boast that? Less than people who boasted about happiness. Happiness was like a cruel mistress that left all those lovers that dared to speak her name. On the other hand, purpose was like a loyal dog that waited eagerly by the door to greet its owner. 

Give him purpose anytime.

* * *

 **January 25th, 2019 | King’s Landing, Westeros**

Jon had never taken much enjoyment from social functions, something that had never ceased to be a source of amusement for his siblings. Before his father and stepmother moved to Sunspear, Elia would make all of them attend the prestigious events that made the capital of Westeros seem so lively, while Jon went on brooding and pouting for everyone except the woman to see. As soon as their children became adults, his parents left south to the land his stepmother always spoke favourably of, and Jon found his reprieve. His siblings, his uncle and his aunt also moved away, in order to pursue their own hobbies and quests, Jon gladly left behind in his purposeful search for a fairer world. Unfortunately, that didn’t last forever: eventually, his siblings’ journeys took them back into his daily life, or - to be more specific - upstate in Dragonstone; and with that they dragged him back to whatever social function they deemed fit. 

Luckily, that week Viserys was visiting his brother, Aegon was in Essos and Daenerys in Meereen, therefore the only he had to deal with was Rhaenys. Out of the three, Rhaenys was his favourite: she was the one that most reminded him of Elia, by far his favourite member of his household, soft but willful all the same. That didn’t mean that he was able to escape the Black Betha Foundation Ball. Despite her equestrian ambitions, his sister was a natural born _socialite_ , she would never allow him to miss the annual ball of the charity that carried their great-great-grandmother, even if they no longer managed it, even if it was the sixtieth edition of it. 

Rhaenys was in her own element, that much was obvious, but differently from Egg and Dany, who would have abandoned Jon to his own devices as soon as they walked into the foyer, Rhaenys still made an effort to include him in their conversations, her eyes glittering as she shared an anecdote with the masses of sycophantic high-borns. Maybe there was something to do with having a husband just as socially awkward as Jon, but Rhaenys knew how to put him at ease (though Rakharo would probably begrudge the description, he would probably use the word apathetic or something similar). His sister looked ravishing like that, her periwinkle blue silk pleated around her body like a chilton, she exuded feminine elegance and he adored her for it. Rhaenys didn’t speak much with him, most probably in an attempt to steer the attention away from him, but she still directed enough words to him in a way that someone might believe he was having a conversation with whoever she was talking with. As it was, Jon had just commented on the absence of Aegon, therefore he thought himself on the clear for at least five more minutes, so he didn’t notice that the people Rhaenys had been talking with were no longer there, and she was actively looking at him. 

“Huh?” Jon asked her to repeat whatever she had said, like a moron. 

Rhaenys huffed, a tint of annoyance in her brows. “You said your wife wasn’t coming.” 

“She is not.” Jon hadn’t seen his wife in their residence the past week, which meant he hadn’t had the chance to inform her of the ball. It was no big loss: these days Sansa was so busy with her work that he very much doubted she would care about charity balls, and even if she cared, he doubted she had the time. These days he’d hear her car parking in the garage after ten o’clock in the night, as working late became more common. News: the whole world would have to burn to the ground, eliminating any audience, in order for him to get his wife back. 

“Well, I didn’t know she had another sister aside from the midget, a twin one.” And Rhaenys was right of course, there was no twin sister, following her line of sight, Jon noticed that his wife was really there, in all her magnificent glory. 

Sansa wore black: a sleek dress with a very conservative neckline and completely backless, a very low-key choice for her, as was the rest of her appearance, effortless and composed, as if she hadn’t been in front of the cameras less than two hours ago. She did make her way to them very slowly, as if they were mere acquaintances she was obliged to greet, as if Jon wasn’t the only reason she would be invited to a ball like that. 

Sometimes, Jon caught himself wondering where the girl he had fallen in love with had gone. The truth was that this girl had never existed outside his own imagination - and wasn’t that pathetic? Sansa had done many wrongs, but she had never pretended to be that girl. Sansa lied through her teeth about everything, except two things: what she was, and the news she reported. She had told him: _I’m too selfish for you_ , and he had chosen to ignore it. Right now, she lied about who she was to the whole ballroom, pretending to be that goddess with a smile, the temptress in black, when she was nothing but ice-cold steel, but not even in that moment did she disguise what she was: a taker, a creature of the media, a mistress of the facades. And still, if Jon let himself consider her for a moment, he would trick himself into believing the lies she didn’t even try to conjure. 

_Every fool is pleased with his own folly, indeed._

“Rhaenys, it’s so good to see you. Jon.” Sansa said as soon as she reached them, kissing the air near his sister’s cheeks before placing a delicate hand on his forearm, a semblance of intimacy. She had times her arrival perfectly, moments after Raymund Darry and his wife left them for the dance floor. “Excuse my tardiness, I had to wrap up some things after the transmission.” 

“I figured you wouldn’t come.” After all, until that morning he wasn’t going to, and he had purposely hid the event from her, aware that she wouldn’t let him avoid it if she knew. Sansa didn’t seem very affected by his words, but she never was, for words rebounded in the surface of her skin. Instead, she smiled, crimson lips stretching in amusement. 

“And miss when someone calls your name for a speech, dear, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” She took his glass of whiskey from his hands, nimbly sipping the golden liquor. “Rhaenys, how was Dorne? I cannot see Rahkro anywhere?”

Rhaenys eyed his wife in distaste. Oh, Jon loved his sister very much, but he wasn’t blind to the fact there was no lost love between Sansa and the rest of his family. Daenerys was the one who got along the best with her, and that was mostly because his aunt didn’t care a lot about him, and liked the excuse of a career woman in the family to go purchase her own endeavours. He also knew that Sansa was very much aware of it. His attempts to work the wrinkles out between them had been ill accepted by both sides and then he decided it didn’t matter much - Sansa would continue to be his wife, they would continue to meet her occasionally and ignore her existence the rest of the time. 

“He is in Sarnor. There is an enchanting courser in Saath we wish to purchase.” Rhaenys said by his side, her eyes sweeping the crowd as she took a sip of her champagne flute. “Excuse me, I have to speak with Allyria before she decides I have forgotten about her.”

His sister left them behind, in what was probably a great example of an aloof exit, and yet which Jon knew Sansa would still interpret as fleeing. The antics of the peerage were a great source of amusement for Sansa, even if tinged with bitterness, in the same way his wife’s shortcomings were a subject of scorn for his family. 

Jon signaled another glass for a waiter, as Sansa didn’t seem very keen on freeing his former one. Immaculate was the best word to use in describing his wife - she certainly appeared to belong in Maidenvault Hall better than him - and it was painfully obvious that many agreed with the notion: men and women both would direct their eyes in her direction, appreciative of the way her perfectly twisted updo left the porcelain skin of her slender back bare. He never saw her with her hair down anymore, except on the few times he caught her on television. Outside of the studio, her sleek long bob was always maneuvered into glossy updos. 

Jon had no idea what to say to his wife, who he had last seen five days ago by accident, as she interrupted his breakfast for a glass of water. What a strange notion, to cohabit with a ghost. 

“I reckon Rhaenys is the only one in town.” She spoke to break the stiff atmosphere between them, after he nearly chugged an entire glass of whiskey.

“Yes.” Jon answered, biting back the burning in his throat. “Dany had some conference in Slaver’s Bay about the Unsullied Initiative. Egg and Valena decided to vacation in Lys, from what they are supposedly vacationing, I have little idea.” 

Sansa snickered, because there was truly something amusing in the idea of his brother ever choosing to pursue something if not pleasure. “We both know that Aegon needs little reason to try to drink and dance himself to death. Meanwhile, we could be even in a ballroom, and we wouldn’t find within ourselves to dance with the music.” 

Jon nodded, avoiding an answer. He knew she was inviting him to dance, or at least opening the opportunity for her to be asked, and she knew he wouldn’t take it. He had always disliked dancing: in the early years of their marriage, he made the effort occasionally, his father’s gramophone awaiting for her when she arrived home - but those were the early years, when he still believed he could convince her into loving him. There was no use in prostrating himself before the altar of waltzing, though, Sansa may love dancing - she might have even become a ballerina in another life, a life in which her parents had the money for ballet classes - but she wouldn’t love him because of a dance. 

“Jon.” Sansa had dropped her glass on a tray, and she was now reaching for his, her deft fingers embracing his as much as prying them open. “We don’t have anything to talk about, and nobody will approach us if we are alone.” 

In heels, his wife was the same height as he. He could smell her perfume in their position, deceptive sweet like black currants and tulips, softly musky. Before he knew, his right hand was hovering over her waist, and they were heading in the direction of the dance floor. The steps they took were rehearsed by years of forced situations such as those, and Jon decided that if he was going to dance, he might as well lead them into the direction where he had last seen Jeor Mormont, there he would also be able to find the other men and women he was on friendly terms with. 

The waltz was a slow one, thankfully, because quicker tempoed waltzes encouraged Sansa to flourish their steps. Unfortunately, that also meant that his wife didn’t have to focus even a little in order to dance, which led to her attempts at conversation. “Rhaenys will tell Allyria Dayne to call your forward for the speech.”

Jon didn’t ask why she thought that. If Sansa ventured an opinion out, it was most likely correct. “You should mention your cousin. And Rhaegar, of course: how life is renewed in the face of tragedy, and how it will continue to do so.” Sansa continued. 

Jon didn’t try to contain his stiffening form below her hands. “I don’t need your advice. I have watched enough speeches to know how to simmer my own.” He was a barrister, she couldn’t actually think speaking in front of cameras made her more articulate than someone who spoke in front of a jury. 

Sansa ignored him. “Don’t try to squeeze a joke - make it for inspiration, not enjoyment.” Jon stopped in his tracks, taking his hand away from her waist. Sansa stumbled in her steps, too lost in the dance to be prepared for an uncooperative partner. A foolish partner, that was what he was. He should never have let her led him into the dance, of course she would try to put in her two cents. 

Jon started to make his way to the hallway, when his wife grabbed his wrist. “Smile, then. If you are not going to inspire people in donating, at least make them find happiness in being charitable.” Jon yanked his arm free from her grasp, not daring to look behind. 

He didn’t feel any reason to smile, until he thought of the figure of his wife, standing alone in the middle of the dance floor. 

* * *

**November 14th, 2012 | King’s Landing, Westeros**

“I’m moving to Yunkai.” 

Sansa could see the anger settling in her husband’s features as Jon assimilated her words. They were in one of the most prestigious establishments in the capital, the Seven Swords. Usually, a table had to be booked six weeks in advance yet the couple had walked into it without a prior word. It was in instances such as those that Sansa was reminded how much weight her husband’s name carried. It was also thanks to the Targaryens this position was offered to her – in-group favoritism still prevailed in modern-day society, especially when the aforementioned group consisted of the same social class.

“Do I have a say in it?” Jon inquired, cutting his heart sweetbread with dexterity. “I mean, as your husband and housemate?”

Sansa took a moment to stare at him. She knew why they were there, of course, she wasn’t that obtuse. Her parents used to go out on their anniversary every year until the day her father was found dead. But what was one supposed to do on it? She didn’t particularly care. “It’s a big opportunity. I would be one of the main foreigner correspondents in Slaver’s Bay.” He didn’t seem to find that particularly relevant. “If I stay for a year, I could probably return as a newscaster.” 

“By moving to a warzone.” It was a ridiculous definition, Yunkai was at least two hundred miles away from the warzone - even if she wasn’t a reporter, she had a brother in the army therefore she had to know. “I cannot leave my life here.” 

“I know that.” And she did. Jon wasn’t even thirty, but he was on the right track to become the Head of the Crown Prosecutorial Office in a few years, and maybe a judge. Her husband believed in fairness, and he would always work to serve it. It was so rare to see someone born that high in life with such a strong sense of justice and egalitarianism, and for that, she appreciated him even more. 

“So that’s it, then? On our first anniversary you propose we spend our second year of marriage apart? Is this some kind of twisted request for separation?” 

“Jon.” Sansa pleaded, reaching for the hand he had forgotten above the table. “You know that’s not it.” He wrenched his hand free from hers, defensively bringing it to his glass of wine. “We promised to each other, that our careers came before our marriage. A year - we will have many more of that together. But this is my dream, what else am I supposed to do aside pursue it?”

Her husband set his glass down, his hand reaching for the small box he had brought with him. “I would never tell you to give up your goals, you know that. Therefore, there is no reason why we couldn’t have discussed it together.” He pushed the box in her direction. “Happy anniversary, Sansa. Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.”

Sansa watched with caution as her husband abandoned their table, disappearing into the hallway, before she reached for the red leather box. Inside of it, there was a watch of gold and diamonds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? I'm very curious to hear your feedback!


	3. motionless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what to comment. Just probably don’t make judgments before the end of the story, but it’s more fun if you do.

**January 16th, 2019 | King’s Landing**

As soon as their editorial meeting ended, Sansa found herself inside an editing room with Podric Payne. Pod was a junior news producer, competent beyond his young years, which she had chosen to bring under her tutelage when he was still an intern in the newsroom. The young man had a great eye for video and scriptwriting. 

“Ok. I will need everything you have of Joffrey Baratheon. Every recording of his public appearances, every photograph, everything you can get on his digital footprint, everywhere he was seen, everywhere he was reportedly seen, everything on his background: family, friends, medical history. I want to know who this guy is, where did he come from, why people believe he could become the next prime-minister, what is he gonna do, when he is gonna do it, how did he take over the political scene in Red Keep.” Sansa stopped on her feet for a minute, trying to remember if there was something she might have left behind.

Podric, on the other hand, was looking at her as if she had just told him she had birthed dragon eggs from her husband's funeral pyre, slack-jacked. “You don’t have a source.”

Sansa wanted to answer –  _ Sweetheart, I don’t even have a sour –  _ but she gave up on it as she feared she might break a perfectly healthy twenty-four year old. “Correction, I don’t have a source yet.”

That statement didn’t seem to sit that well with poor Podric either - the man looked away from the computer screen his eyes were attached to in order to look at her form, leaning against the wall. “So, you were lying through your teeth when you told Director Baelish you did.”

“I was a piss poor liar when I first came to King’s Landing. Petyr was the one who taught me to lie so well.” Sansa shrugged, glancing at her nails. She had to cancel her manicure the day before, which meant she would have until Saturday to get them done. “He should at least be a little suspicious about me lying.” 

“And he doesn’t care?”

“Why should he? I will eventually have it, he knows I will deliver.” Sansa said, sitting down by his side. “Now, get me what I asked.” 

If there was one thing she enjoyed in Podric Payne, was that he was very eager to fulfill a request. He was also quite good at it, proficient in gathering information, be it by investigating or by listening to gossip - he appeared harmless, therefore people were prompt to dismiss him. And he was quite harmless - the dread he felt over her lies was entirely genuine, she knew, and a source of annoyance - but that didn’t mean he wasn’t loyal, and that he lacked the shrewdness to get things done. As it was, as soon as he was commanded, Podric started to scavenge for every bit of information she asked, not before allowing himself one last comment: “I still can’t believe you lied to Mr. Baelish.”

Sansa glanced at the boy. He was an Oldtowner, like her, and he had pursued his masters in King’s Landing, also like her. He would have a great future in line for himself, as long as he learned the rules of the newsroom, which could easily translate the rules of the rest of the world. 

“Pod. Baelish doesn’t give a fuck if I lied. All he needs is to hear me say what I said to a room full of people.”

And that was the bare truth. Petyr Baelish wasn’t a man for empty promises, he was a man born and molded by blackmailing, backstabbing and good reliance on the fear of public rejection - not everyone saw that about him, but it became obvious the longer she worked under his tutelage. Petyr knew Sansa wouldn’t allow herself to be humiliated in front of her peers, and that was all the reassurance he needed. If at least all the other relationships in her life could be as simple and synchronized as hers and Baelish, her life would be much easier. 

“You are back to wearing that watch.” Podric’s comment caught Sansa off her guard. His eyes were back to being glued to the screen, but the tip of his ears were red against the black of his hair. “When you started out in front of the cameras, you always wore it. But you stopped wearing it after a year.”

Sansa looked at the watch.  _ Jon’s watch _ . It wasn’t even the finest piece of jewelry she had ever received from him, but it was probably the one with most significance. Her father had gifted her mother a watch when Sansa was born - nothing as fancy as that one, but important anyway. It was one of the few stories Jon knew about her family, which was probably worse, because they both knew it symbolized something they couldn’t have. But Sansa wouldn’t explain those things to the man who was barely out of his boyhood. One day he might marry and have his own problems. And what a strange concept it was, as she was just a bit older than Pod when she had gotten married. “That was long ago. How do you remember that?”

“Ah.” The red had escaped from his ears to the rest of his face, a full blush that was almost admirable. “That was the year I went to Oldtown. I became fascinated by news that year.”

Sansa smirked. It was nice, sometimes, to see she still got the power to make men blush. Most of the time, she had the impression people could see in her appearance, how old and weathered she was inside. Sansa wondered how much longer she had until her outside could no longer hide the wretched truth that was she was poisonous inside. Maybe she still had time: it had taken Jon a year to begin to suspect it, and many more to be certain of the fact. If it had taken so long to the person that lived the closest to herself, then she might have time yet. Or maybe, Jon was just the kind of person that saw the best in others - a rarer and rarer kind, extinct in the broadcasting industry. 

Sansa had never entertained the thought of giving up the race for the most desirable seat in the industry, however sometimes a question wandered to the back of her mind: would she be happier if she didn’t have dreams? In the end, she always made sure to banish to the crumbles of her five year old self, who had wanted to be a princess and have as many babies as her mother. 

The race, six weeks were enough to undermine her competition. It was not the proudest way of behavior and yet, one to be adopted in situations such as these. A war cannot be fought on one front only, and her opponents were unworthy of such. Edric was simply a corrupt man, with the right abilities to deliver and none of the ethics demanded of his profession. Margaery was weak, prone to acquiescing to the wants of others in order to gain an abstract sense of power she couldn’t actually use.

Undermining Edric Storm was a hard job. Most because the choosing of the best threat was simply impossible – they were too many, all of them very scandalized. With him, it was to pick the proverbial fruit from the basket: one had simply to make a choice, and pray not to see the other paths a different choice might have led.

Margaery was another case whatsoever. Sansa didn’t have anything on her, even though Sansa knew the woman had little innocence. Nonetheless, her material would have to be more recent, more complex than the things she could possibly threat her with these days.

It would be done, in the end. And with an exclusive with Baratheon she would get what she wanted.

* * *

####  **January 25th, 2019 | King’s Landing**

Sansa watched as her stubborn husband disappeared into the crowd. For someone born in such a respectable family, Jon was prone to lack of subtlety and burst of recklessness - but then, her husband was not one to stand still in the face of a variance of his code of conduct. While to most people morality was an abstract concept, in Jon’s case his ethics were almost tangible, a companion to everything he did. Sansa always admired that trait in him, even if it was the bane of her existence. 

When the music ended, a glass of champagne had already made its way into Sansa’s hands, the only company she needed to watch the ballroom as if she were a hawk. A man, a Graceford, she believed, invited her to dance the next song. In another day, another life, Sansa might have accepted it, but she intended to dance with just one person that night. The one who was the reason for her presence in the ball.

Sansa had always been aware of the ball’s date, but she hadn’t entertained the thought of attending before that morning. Jon wouldn’t attend if he had the choice - of course, with Rhaenys on the picture that choice was taken from him. Still, Sansa knew her attendance pleased neither, and avoidance was her best option. That did change when Podric informed her that the latest celebrity amongst the uppercut RSVPed this morning.

Joffrey Baratheon was an interesting character, undoubtedly. Nobody had heard of him on this side of the sea before last year, despite his Andal name and his very ancient family. The Baratheons were a military household in the stormlands – they had an ancient bound of vassalage to the Dukes of Durrandon, and yet, their name had never made the news. Therefore, it had been even more surprising when a Joffrey Baratheon started to show up in events such as these, making speeches and rallying forces. He had no political career whatsoever, and yet both the masses and the peerage were interested in what he had to say. He had yet to be nominated as a candidate for the Head of the Cabinet, but every week a new party was reported to be in the talks with him. He was charming and charismatic to the point people wanted to believe in his vision. 

It took her a few minutes to recognise him in the crowd. He was a tall man, quite handsome with his sharp features, his wavy hair slicked back and parted on the side. Joffrey had pouty lips and deep green eyes and he was dressed to impress: though an aubergine suit wasn’t the first thing she looked in a man, Sansa could admit there was a certain charm in a man unafraid of color. Aside Petyr, she didn’t know any that did it so well as this man appeared to. He was dancing with a willowy lady Sansa didn’t recognise, very young and bright-eyed - no matter, as soon as their eyes met, the man was abandoning his dance partner for the redhead.

“And who might you be?” He asked her, a glint in his eyes as if he had found a particular interesting prey. Sansa smirked, finishing off her champagne in one swallow.

“Someone you want to dance with.” She said, taking his hand. “Sansa Stark, at your disposal.”


	4. righteousness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, most of my readers have been begging me for some Jonsa, so I finally decided to give in. It's not much - I should inform you guys, that in the present, most of the Jonsa will happen later. 
> 
> On another hand, I thought some of you might want to know some special background story, so today I will speak of ages because most of them were altered, here are their birthdays by month/year: Sansa (b. 10/1986); Jon (b. 01/1981); Joffrey (b. 08/1980); Dany (b. 06/1978); Rhaenys (b. 09/1982); Aegon (b. 07/1984); Rhaegar (b. 03/1956); Elia (b. 11/1955); Lyanna (b. 12/1960 - d. 01/1981); Viserys (b. 05/1973); Myranda (b. 03/1978);  
> So, some might notice that Jon is the eldest here. The Targaryens are a really traditional house, so I want them to frown upon divorce or cheating and anything like that. In order for that to happen, Rhaegar couldn't have left his wife for Lyanna, so the story is that a 19-year-old Lady Lyanna Snowdon married a 24-year-old Rhaegar and they had Jon, and Lyanna died of childbirth. Then he married Elia and had his other children. Joffrey is Baratheon, but the Durrandons are very much alive.  
> Catelyn and Ned had five children, but I won't go in detail about Sansa's family until is convenient.

**February 26th, 2011 | King’s Landing**

“Let’s go on a date.” He would always say after they had scratched their respective itches, while they lay down in the nondescript bed, inside a standardized hotel room. Their preferred one was two blocks down the courthouse, a very convenient location for him, and not particularly out of her way, as she spent most of her time running down the government buildings, scavenging for a news story. 

“And what is this?” She had finally asked on their fifth encounter, tired from outright rejecting him and also somewhat curious about what it would entail. She had been in a particularly good mood that day, as he had spent the last quarter of an hour going down on her, thoroughly eating her. 

Jon had watched as the gorgeous redhead traipsed around their room, covered only by her long hair. He couldn’t believe he had somewhat convinced the mythological being that lived underneath that skin to meet up with him. If his luck didn’t fail him, she would end up dating him. “A real date, in which I wine and dine you to your satisfaction.” 

“And what can you possibly want from me that I’m not already giving you, that I have to be taken on a date to give?” Sansa had asked him from the bathroom, where he could hear the sound of washing out - it was fascinating, how she could make even that sound sexy. 

That had prompted him to sit up, trying to free himself from the sheets. “You meant that if we went on a date, you would open to more? Now I really want that date.” 

“Save your fancy wine, Jaehaerys, just tell me what you have in mind. Your money would be wasted in a girl like me.” He was cheeky in those first months, his brooding almost washed over by the freshness of their relationship. 

“I don’t think so. A woman like you is exactly the kind of woman I wish to spend my money on. A woman that is you, to be more accurate.” He always enjoyed watching her move around the toilet, doing her makeup again, and fixing her hair. The process that made the goddess look human again (or maybe it was the reverse? He never managed to decide which analogy was best). “And I would buy you champagne, the glass suits you better than anyone I know.” 

It had taken Sansa nine more times to agree to dinner. To her, Jon was a blessing - and she would be damned if that didn’t make her hesitant. Sansa didn’t have the best luck with men throughout her life, and even though they had always looked fine and handsome from afar, the time had revealed every single one of them to be monsters or just impossibilities. Sansa couldn’t really understand what made Jon remotely like her. Of course, she had been told her whole she was pretty - beautiful, even - but Jon was the opposite from shallow. He was kind and good, honest and honorable, a righteous man in every aspect, whose reasoning to be interested in Sansa, she couldn’t understand - she, after all, was a lying and conniving bitch, no matter what light one chose to light upon her. 

Their first date had been in a bar. Nothing fancy, like the ones they would sometimes frequent further in their marriage, but something more like a pub, cozy but unpretentious, the kind of place you took the chick you have been banging for awhile if you wanted to develop something more akin to a relationship (which was the case). Jon wasn’t the romantic type of guy, but he was an observant one, therefore he knew she wouldn’t react better to something more than that. 

“I love you.” He had said at the end of it, making her look at him in disbelief over their discarded bottles of beer. 

Sansa chortled. “Right. I didn’t take you for a lightweight, but you are so very drunk.”

“I’m not drunk - I’m barely tipsy. But I’m very in love with you.” He spoke, as he leaned back on his chair. He stopped for a moment, probably remembering that this was still their first date, technically. “Ok, so maybe I’m a bit drunk, but that only means I am more honest than ever. And I’m not a lightweight, we have been drinking for the past three hours, and you are also drunk, and deeply flushed. Why are you so articulate?”

“Because I am a reporter and I spend my days training with a pencil in my mouth and tongue-twisters so I can speak properly.” She spoke pointedly, showcasing her admirable articulation with exaggeration. 

“Right, journalism - your reason for living. I don’t really put a finger onto it. What do you want to achieve with it? What’s the end goal of all of this?”

“My dream.” She said, looking away in an attempt to avoid that line of questioning. 

“And what dream is that?”

Sansa hesitated, taking a sip out of her glass. “A just society.” His face was baffled, staring at her as if she was something not human. “You think I am kidding. I am not kidding, and this is not the unreachable dream that I intend to never see-through. I have plans, I traced the goals and everything.” His expression remained unchanged, and somewhere in her mind, Sansa’s brain provided she was rambling. “It was my father’s dream so you absolutely cannot say it’s foolish.” 

“I don’t find it foolish. I find it admirable. And I love you.” 

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know that I’m going to marry you one day.” Sansa had laughed then, certain that he was kidding. Little she knew that by the end of the year she would be a married woman. 

It had taken Jon four months to convince her that there was nothing wrong with him except his inability to see her flaws, Summer was already approaching when Sansa decided that as far as fatal flaws went, blindness was one of the preferable ones to choose, definitely survivable. She had been half-blind, in the end: yes, it was indeed survivable, but one might prefer death over surviving it. 

* * *

**March 30th, 2019 | King’s Landing**

“Perhaps you would like to amend the answer to my previous question, Mrs. Targaryen. What was your relationship with the deceased, Mr. Baratheon?”

Barristan Selmy. The name was not unfamiliar to Sansa, but the man sitting opposite her didn’t resemble much of what she remembered of him - or maybe, she was just prone to dislike him on the basis of him interrogating her on the whole matter. Sansa knew how it looked. A piece of jewelry found in the nightstand of a dead bachelor, which obviously didn’t belong to the deceased, a less decent news reporter would find it enough to run a story. 

“I don’t have anything to amend, Detective.” Sansa was beginning to suspect the man had killed himself just out of spite. Probably not - Baratheon was too self-centered for that - no, the deed was probably done due to one of his interior demons surfacing: there were certainly enough of them, and Sansa was sure she had only seen a fraction of it. “He was my subject, someone to interview.” 

“Is this watch yours, Mrs. Targaryen?” Sansa wanted to scream. She was going to be late for the broadcast just because of Selmy eas like a dog with a bone.

_ Obviously, _ she wanted to say, but she thought better. She would never admit to the affair the detective’s mind had concocted. “It does resemble a watch I have. I don’t believe it was an exclusive piece.” 

“Yes, but the engraving points to the idea, doesn’t it?”

“I would have to examine it closer.” She replied, stubbornly setting her hands on the table.

“Let’s say it was yours. Do you have any idea how that watch might have ended up in Mr. Baratheon’s nightstand?” Of course, Sansa was somewhat aware that it was probably hers. She hadn’t found it among her things that morning, which led her to believe the bastard had taken it away the day before. But she would damned if she were to implicate her career to aid in the investigation of Baratheon’s suicide. 

“You won’t answer?”

“I do believe this is a voluntary interview. I don’t have to answer any question that makes me uncomfortable, much less one hypothetical.” Sansa was eternally grateful to the year her brother Robb had attended law school, as if she had to depend on her father to teach her police proceedings she would have been quite gullible. And everything Robb hadn’t learned about the law, she was taught by her husband.

“That’s an answer.”

“That’s an answer to your last question.” 

“Where were you between 22:00 and 07:00 of yesterday?”

“I was at home.” It was an odd question to ask a witness to his last days. What were they implicating with that? “I’m sorry. I fail to understand why this question is relevant.” 

Selmy shrugged as if he could dismiss her question with his shoulders. He was writing it down a notebook, and all she could hear was the pen scratching. “Was there someone with you?”

“My husband arrived soon after me.” She answered immediately, before hesitating. “Detective, am I under suspicion? I fail to see how one can possibly blame someone of a suicide.”

Selmy settled his pen down, his clear eyes seeking hers as he spoke: “We have yet to determine it was a suicide.”

Sansa decided it was enough of it. It was a fishing expedition - she was quite familiar with the idea of police misconduct and she was not foolish enough to imagine someone might want to speed things over if she allowed it. “I believe this is enough for now, I won’t be answering any more questions.”

As if he had been just awaiting his cue, a figure burst into the interrogation room. It was a weekend, but her husband was wearing a suit and a briefcase as if he had been at his office since morning. Jon definitely looked polished, not even a bit frazzled by the fact his wife was being interviewed in a police station. “Indeed, let’s put a stop to this line of questioning.” He spoke, as he walked in her direction and laid down his briefcase and overcoat by her side. Her husband: her own knight in shining suit

“And you are?” Selmy asked, despite the fact, there was some sparkle of recognition in his eyes. 

Jon didn’t answer the question directly, instead opting to say: “From this moment on, the witness, Sansa Targaryen, will not cooperate in this investigation without a lawyer present. I’m her lawyer, Jaehaerys Targaryen.” 

“Ah, the husband. Your timing is spectacular, Mr. Targaryen.” 

And it was, wasn’t it? Sansa didn’t think she had ever been more relieved to have her husband by her side, even if he still had to direct a word in her direction. Jon was good, great to be honest, and she knew he would never allow her to be as much as accused of anything. And he was there - she hadn’t know if he would come, but then, maybe he hadn't heard about the watch. “I think you have taken enough time interviewing my wife.” His hand rested on her shoulder, something akin to reassurance...or perhaps he was just directing her to stand, which she did. “I will advise Sansa to refrain from answering any other question. This interview is finished.”

They were nearly by the door when Selmy called them out. “Oh, Mrs. Targaryen. Why did you do the morning news today? I thought you only did nighttime. I am curious to know why you did the morning news.”

_ A coincidence,  _ she wanted to say. But was it true? Sansa didn’t know what to think anymore and wasn’t that bothersome. “You can find that out if you investigate.” Her husband answered before she could.

“I suppose you are right, or Mrs. Targaryen can save me time by answering.” Sansa wanted to, though she doubted Selmy would like her answer. Jon stopped her before she could. “Ah well, I reckon we will have to investigate anyway.” Selmy continued, putting the photographs back into his file. “Very well, leave then.”

The hallway was empty by the time they stepped out. It was very late, so it wasn’t a great surprise that the station was lacking the usual bustling she had seen when she arrived. Before Sansa could make her way into the foyer, Jon grabbed her wrist. “You can’t go that way, there is a mob of reporters waiting for you.”

What? Sansa could understand if there were one or two junior reporters, overachievers eager for the minimum sense of something noteworthy. But a character witness was not something that greatly mattered, even if by any chance the police suspected her of being his lover. Sansa was sure that information hadn’t reached the ears of her colleagues, simply because men like Selmy would want to sit upon it for a while before revealing their suppositions. “They called you as a witness, but they were investigating your alibi,” Jon explained.

“Yes, I suspected that when Selmy asked me about my whereabouts. I can’t understand where he is coming from.”

“An article came out, they believe Joffrey Baratheon was murdered, and then his death was disguised as a suicide. He never wrote a letter, and there are signs of breaking and entering.” Jon told her.  _ What was he saying?  _ “We should have more details in the autopsy.”

Sansa took out her cell phone from her purse. She had seven missed calls from Myranda, four from Jeyne Poole, and one from Petyr. Her brother Bran had sent her an email, and that was about it. Sansa selected her friend’s number, and let it ring.

“Thank gods, you are ok.” She heard Myranda’s voice over the phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the police precinct. I was called in as a witness.” Sansa said. “Myranda, what the hell is happening?”

The sound of someone walking could be heard over the line and suddenly the background noise was silenced. Myranda went somewhere private, then. “Well, I’m hearing on my end of the line that the police think Joffrey Baratheon was murdered. And you, Sansa, are their prime suspect.”

“What?!” She shouted over the phone, making Jon give her an odd look.

“I know, it’s ludicrous: if you had killed him nobody would find the body.” Myranda allowed herself to joke, before sobering up again. “But Sansa, this will be the end of your career if you don’t solve it quickly.”

“Ok, thanks. See you later.” She ended the call before glancing around at her husband. Did he think she had done it too? Was that why he hadn’t asked if she was alright still? Did Jon seriously think she had murdered

someone? “Jon. I didn’t do it.” He had to believe her, but she didn’t think he did. Sansa had never seen his face so expressionless as it was at that moment. “There was nothing between us.” 

The knowledge that on the other side of the hallway wall a bunch of cops thought she had murdered that bastard crept in her mind. How come that in less of a day her life managed to turn around in something angry and disgusting? Sansa wanted an out and yet she also knew nobody would provide it to her. 

Sansa pushed past her husband and into the offices she has seen many inside before. They were all there, a bunch of men that knew nothing about her, judging her character with the eyes she had attracted to herself when she intruded upon them. Those were the people that would decide if she had done it or not, and she found all of them lacking.

But it was Selmy the one she wanted to speak with. “You called me here saying you had a few simple questions but you put me into an interrogation room and treated me like a suspect.” She said, approaching the man. “Do you have any evidence? Or did you take a hot case and decided to accuse someone famous to gain some fame for yourself?” She was almost shouting. Someone, an officer probably, tried to interrupt her but she wouldn’t have any of it. She hadn’t become a journalist to be silenced into submission. “Your job is to catch criminals, Detective, but police misconduct has put many innocents behind the bars. Do you want me to be another of those?”

“The body had many scratches - nail scratches. And you look like a woman out for a fight.” Selmy spoke. “I wonder what I would find underneath your nails, Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Absolutely nothing. I have regular appointments with a manicure Tuesdays and Saturdays.” She dismissed him. “This is how the Westerosi Police works? By throwing around accusations and hoping they stick?” Sansa caught his eyes. “You all, the police, will be my judges before anyone else. Therefore, I warn: take good care not to judge me wrongly, because you will put yourselves in great danger. I have spent half of my life as a reporter going against prosecutors, if you are going up against me, do it properly.”

She was done with them. Alone in the foyer, Sansa tried to make sense of the last hours, the last days. How had everything ended up like that? She should have read the signs, she should have trusted her instincts. Maybe, she should have done everything by herself. Who could she trust? Her family, she supposed, but trusting her family was a very useless thing as they had no resources, as they lived hundreds of miles away and as they knew nothing about the world she lived in. Myranda, perhaps, though her trust was mostly born out of the other’s necessity. Petyr, but she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Jon? What a question to ask. Would their marriage ever survive if people began to associate her name with Baratheon’s in a romantic manner? Would he ever acknowledge her if he thought she did it?

“You must not deal with this emotionally.” It was him, of course.

“I’m not dealing with it emotionally. I’m reasonably upset by the false accusations being thrown at my face.” She answered, taking a sip of the cappuccino she had bought from a machine.

“Your watch was found in Baratheon’s nightstand. Isn’t it obvious that people will think you are somewhat associated with him?” Jon didn’t seem fazed by the idea she might have a lover. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Sansa

would never understand the terms of their marriage. Did he have lovers? The intimacy between them had been sporadic for many years until in the last two it became nonexistent whatsoever. Many times, Sansa had heard that men needed sex more than women, and if she missed it, how could her husband compare?

“What about you? What do you think?” She asked. Jon hesitated for a long time, but he didn’t answer, instead of avoiding her eyes by looking at the coffee machine. “You think I did it. Like them. You think I killed him.”

“Let’s talk outside.” He answered, trying to steer her to the back alley entrance once again.

“No. I don’t need a lawyer that doesn’t believe me.” She said. How could someone that had lived with her for the last seven years think she could possibly kill another human being. How did her marriage become so wrecked that her husband believed a foolish detective's theories over her words?

“I’m your husband too.”

“Bah. If you were truly my husband you would have asked if I was alright the second I stepped out of that room. Rather than speak of my alibi, you should have inquired how I was feeling. You should have done that first.”

Jon didn’t have an answer for that. Outside the foyer, the lights were flashing. A mob of reporters, Jon had called. There would be cameras and recorders. Some would take pictures, others just her words. A third type would film the whole affair. SKTV. CBC. KLT. WRC. The Crownlander. The Daily Print. Who else would be there? WBC probably was. They would all be reporting the same thing. That she was called to the station. That she left it without a statement. People would read and hear about a journalist that did everything to avoid the press when it was her time to face it and wasn’t that ridiculous?

“I have done nothing wrong.” She told her husband. “I have no reason to hide away.”

It was a circus outside. Sansa had always hated and yet somewhat loved the mob. Many times she had hurt herself trying to keep up with the floodgates, but she still remembered the sensation that she saw reflected on those faces full of eagerness. The thrill of discovering a leak, the excitement in chasing a story, the need to find out the truth. People pushed and feet stomped in the middle, while the flashes of the cameras tried to blind everyone else in submission. Sansa missed being part of the mob. Those were simpler times, in which she didn’t have to stand in front of it and made herself be heard.

_ «Why were you at the police station?»  _ A swarthy man, tall and lean, from the KLT.

_ «What was your relationship with Joffrey Baratheon?»  _ A brunette woman with large sulky eyes, from the WMC.

_ «Are you responsible for it?»  _ A young man, wearing turtle glasses, from the Crownlander.

_ «What are your thoughts on Joffrey Baratheon’s death?»  _ A man with a man-bun and a disgruntled beard, from the WRC.

_ «They say you are the only suspect. Is that true?»  _ A blonde petite girl, energetically brandishing a recorder to her face, the CBC.

Not many years ago, she had been one of those faces in the crowd. But never she had been false. Then she married the man that stood behind her, and some doors were opened while others closed. She had learned about regret, about grace, and about the industry she had sacrificed her whole life to. And yet most of the time she wished she could unlearn everything, just so she could aim differently, take a different path, become unwavering. And yet the industry would see her dead and disgraced at the moment she showed her neck, just in order to pull some public to itself.

“Lack of detailed knowledge. A weak investigation with no clear cut direction. Rather than looking for the truth, looking for suggestive news that can be sold. Irresponsible articles that only care about pulling in readers. It’s not only your reputation you will lose, but also the trust people have on the media. I hope this will not go further.” Sansa stared the blonde girl down. “Let’s try to keep some dignity, huh?”

The girl looked down and moved out of her way. Eventually, they all did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think? What do you want to know first? What went wrong from January to March in 2019 or what went wrong in the past? I hope this chapter answers some doubts, and fuel some more!
> 
> Another curiosity: WBC (Westerosi Broadcasting Company), SKTV (Seven Kingdoms Television), CBC (Crownlands Broadcasting Company), KLT (The King's Landing Times), WRC (Westerosi Radio Company), CBS (Crownlands Broadcasting System).


End file.
